She walks away, and he knows she's right. He's got nothing. There's too much death with us today; he needs more life. When you see the sparks you remember that none of us are alone; when you see death and that dead confusion and rage in her eyes you realize that's all we are. A body, any body, is just a naked dangling signifier for a mystery you forgot. He almost falls over with the weight of it, jerking at his jacket tails like a child. They're both right.
Maxine puts away her handheld fan and waves at Momma Thornton like a waitress at a busy restaurant: "Hey. I was moved. Very moved." Maxine was moved; she had a feeling, she was moved by what happened. You hear? "You know, you should come to our next Descendants of the Glorious Dead meeting," she offers. To the only black lady at the funeral. Fucking Maxine. "That some kind of support group? I went to one of those AA meetings once. They were nothing but a cult." Maxine's undone as far as responding, but Tara saves her, grabbing her elbow and jerking her away even as Momma tries to introduce her to Maxine. "We met. Like a hundred times too many. Excuse us." Maxine hates Tara some more, but Tara couldn't care less.
"What the hell are you doing?" Momma begs her to stop, she's hurting her arm, and Tara thinks that's rich. "The last time I saw you, you were beating my head with a bottle." Momma weeps. "Oh, sweet Jesus. You poor child. I'm so sorry." She puts her arm around her, and Tara takes it like a ragdoll. Her body is a territory. She peels her mother's arm from around her back. "You had no right to speak for that woman. She was more of a mother to me than you ever were." Without saying she's grieving, she grieves. "She took care of me. She fed me, she put clothes on me. She called Social Services on you twice. You hated her guts." Momma protests, but Tara remembers: "Yes you did. You used to call her a white devil bitch."